Chapter 2

Eight months later

Nobody came to see me.

The other women were surrounded by their colleagues, by excited families, by tired but happy smiles. I looked at my son in silence, trying to memorize every feature of his small face, as if I feared that the world would also try to take him away from me.

It had been a long, painful, and lonely labor.

When I first placed it on my chest, I knew that, whatever happened, I wouldn't regret it.

It was mine.

And I was all I had.

The hospital wasn't made for someone like me.

I knew it from the very first moment, from the averted glances, from the whispers that didn't bother to hide their true feelings. The other mothers occupied rooms filled with voices, with hands reaching out to their newborns with pride and tenderness. I remained in a corner, my son in my arms, enveloped in a silence that weighed more than any words.

Nobody came to see me.

Nobody asked how I was.

The pain of childbirth still throbbed in my body, dull and constant, but I didn't allow myself to complain. I had quickly learned that it was useless there. The nurses did the bare minimum. Some didn't even do that. Their eyes lingered on me with a mixture of contempt and pity that made me lower my gaze.

"Don't you know who the father is?" one of them asked, with no tact whatsoever.

I pressed my son to my chest.

"No."

It was a lie. But telling the truth would have been worse.

"What a shame," she murmured, watching him." So handsome... and without a partner."

I didn't answer. I wasn't going to defend myself. Nothing I said would change the way she looked at me.

The hours dragged by. I didn't receive any food until late at night, and when I asked if I could have something to drink, they told me it wasn't on my file. As if I didn't exist at all. As if I'd ceased to matter.

The next morning I was moved to another room. Smaller. Colder. Separated from the rest.

There I met two other girls.

We didn't need many words to understand each other.

We shared the same tired look, the same fear hidden beneath a layer of resignation. One of them offered me a granola bar she had brought hidden in her bag. I accepted it with a lump in my throat.

That gesture was the only act of kindness I received in there.

Two days later, I was discharged.

No goodbyes.

No instructions.

Without help.

I left the hospital with my son in my arms and a bag with the few things I owned. The cold morning air hit my face and, for the first time, I understood that I was truly alone.

He had no home.

My car became our refuge.

I slept poorly, always on edge, constantly afraid of accidentally hurting him while he slept. Every sound startled me. Every shadow seemed like a threat. I would get up before dawn to wash us as best I could, to pretend everything was normal when I passed other wolves who avoided looking at me.

Sometimes I wondered if I was being selfish.

If whoever said it wasn't a life for a child was right.

But then he looked at me.

And everything else ceased to matter.

One night, as the rain pounded against the roof of the car, someone knocked on the window.

A man. City security.

"You can't stay here," he told me, more out of weariness than harshness." I've seen you several days now."

I shook my head slowly.

"I have nowhere else to go."

She looked inside the car and her expression changed when she saw the baby.

"And the father?"

I pressed my lips together.

"He's not here."

Sigh.

"I'll give you a few more days. But after that you'll have to leave."

I nodded, not knowing where.

When he left, I rested my forehead against the steering wheel and let the tears fall silently. Not for me. For him. Because this wasn't how I had imagined bringing him into the world.

That night I understood something.

I couldn't go on like this.

I had to ask for help.

Even if it hurt.

Even if I had to face whoever it was.

The rain was falling heavily when I decided to get out of the car.

I couldn't stay in there pretending everything was fine. The air was heavy and humid, and the silence was unbearable. I wrapped my jacket around myself as best I could, making sure my son was safe before opening the door.

I was cold. Hungry. Scared.

But above all, she was tired.

Tired of hiding.

Tired of asking permission to exist.

I walked to the restrooms at The Ashen Quarter to freshen up. Every movement was clumsy, slow, as if my body weighed twice as much. When I returned to the car, with the bucket of water half full and my arms trembling, I saw him.

A man stopped a few meters away.

Dark suit. Upright posture. Attentive gaze.

He didn't seem like someone who was there by chance.

I tensed up instantly.

"Excuse me," I said before thinking too much." Do you have a light?"

The man hesitated for a second, sizing me up. Not with disdain, but with caution. Finally, he took a lighter from his pocket and handed it to me.

"Take."

"Thank you," I replied, lighting the candle inside the car.

When I turned around to give it back, it was still there.

"Is it a baby?" she asked, lowering her voice.

My body reacted before my mind. I moved a little closer to the car, as if I could protect it simply with my presence.

"Yeah."

He nodded slowly. His eyes lingered on my son's face for a second too long.

"You shouldn't be here," he finally said.

I give a short, humorless laugh.

"I know."

There was an awkward silence. I thought she would leave. That she would do what everyone else does: look the other way.

He didn't.

"Does your car work?"

"I don't have any gas," I replied." I'll leave tomorrow."

I didn't know why I was giving him explanations.

The man sighed, as if that answer confirmed something he already suspected.

"I can't leave you here," she finally said." And especially not with a child."

I looked at him, incredulous.

"I don't need charity."

"It's not charity," he replied." It's common sense."

He introduced himself as Cassian Vale.

He didn't say much more.

He offered me a roof over my head for the night. Warmth. Food. Nothing more. No promises. No conditions.

I hesitated for several seconds.

I'd learned to distrust help. It always came with a hidden price.

But I looked at my son.

And I knew I couldn't afford pride.

"Just tonight," I said.

Cassian Vale nodded.

We barely spoke during the drive. He drove calmly, respecting the silence I needed. When we crossed the boundary of the pack's territory, I expected to feel the usual unease.

He didn't arrive.

Cassian Vale noticed it.

"That's strange," he murmured.

I didn't answer.

The house was big. Too big. Cold. Imposing.

He gave me a room, a shower, a clean blanket.

"Rest," he said before leaving." We'll talk to my Alpha tomorrow."

The word struck me like a lightning bolt.

Alpha.

I nodded without a word.

That night, as I watched my son sleep in a real bed for the first time, I allowed myself to think that maybe... just maybe... I had made the right decision.

I didn't know that house wasn't a shelter.

It was the beginning of the end.

I was drying my hair when I felt it.

It wasn't a sound.

Not a single smell.

It was something deeper, something older.

A pressure in the chest.

An invisible pull that forced me to stop.

I slowly raised my head, looking at myself in the mirror without really seeing myself. The air in the room had changed. It had become dense, heavy, as if the whole house were holding its breath.

My son was asleep in bed, peaceful, oblivious to everything.

Then I heard the voices.

Muffled laughter. Clumsy steps. A woman laughing too loudly.

my heart stuttered.

I came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel just as the door opened.

He went in first.

Tall. Imposing. Messy. The smell of alcohol preceded him, mixed with something else... something that made my body react without asking permission.

My hands began to tremble.

Alpha Ronan Blackthorn.

The same man.

The same amber eyes.

The same presence that had marked my life months before.